“Good morning, Campbell,” Roddy says, with a warm, welcoming nod. “You look awake for a city girl.”
“Fake it till you make it, Roddy,” I say with a smile. I adjust the neck warmer I’m glad I grabbed on my way out this morning. The Mavericks windbreaker is definitely not cutting it.
“Follow me. Jake’s already at it,” Roddy says, turning on his heels and leading Connor and me down a worn dirt path toward the back of the property.
As we round the corner of a large timber barn, the soft bleating of goats and the rustle of straw break through the lingering crickets chirping as dawn breaks.
And then, I see him.
My breath catches again, but thankfully, nobody is close enough to hear it this time. Jake is in the middle of a fenced pen, tossing shovels of hay from a square bale. Freezing air be damned, Jake’s shirt is off, tossed over a fence post. Of course it is.
I swallow hard, taking in his form. He’s in nothing but faded denim, heavy work boots, and a battered straw cowboy hat pulled low. A sheen of sweat coats the sculpted planes of his back and chest. Every muscle in his shoulders bunches and ripples as he hoists the heavy pitchfork, his body working with a fierce, rhythmic intensity. It’s the same way he plays the game. Full throttle. Focused.
Alone.
Next to me, Connor eagerly lifts his camera, the lens whirring to life as he captures this side of Jake McKinney.
Jake pauses, leaning on the pitchfork when he spots us. His eyes lock onto mine beneath the brim of his hat. His gaze is dark and unreadable. I think he’s watching the way I’m trying—and failing—to hide my reaction.
“Morning!” My tone is overdone, cheery for the sake of showing off. Jake chuckles.
Roddy steps forward, unlatching the gate.
“Need a hand with that back pen, son?”
Jake’s posture stiffens, and I snap my mouth shut, holding my breath. The friendly country boy vanishes in aninstant, replaced by a cold, rigid wall. Jake doesn’t look at his father and instead keeps his eyes on the hay.
“I’ve got it covered.”
“There’s two more stalls to muck before the sun’s fully up, Jake. Let me take the pitchfork,” Roddy says softly, his voice carrying what I sense as a heavy weight of quiet regret.
Jake doesn’t argue further, but his silence is colder than the air. He hand-delivers the pitchfork to his dad, his fingers never touching Roddy’s, giving him a hard stare as Roddy steps in to help him finish the chore. Still, Jake lets him help, and the two men are suddenly moving in a synchronized dance born of the same DNA. Connor doesn’t seem to have noticed the tense few moments that had me gritting my teeth.
The two men work the hay together while Connor’s camera captures every single frame of the silent drama. I think Connor is taken with the cool shots, ignoring the real story playing out in the silence. Thank God!
Twenty minutes later, the work is done. The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of brilliant pink and orange.
“All right, let’s get some breakfast in you city folks,” a cheerful voice calls out.
Daisy walks down the back porch steps, holding a heavy ceramic platter loaded with steaming, fresh-baked blueberry muffins alongside a pitcher of orange juice and sweating glasses of ice water. How the woman has time to bake, run a bustling restaurant-bar, and keep a property like this looking, well, magazine-shoot ready baffles me. But I’ll indulge in her gifts. I snag a muffin before she sets the tray on a weathered wooden picnic table tucked under a massive oak tree.
“Atta girl,” she utters.
“This table is gorgeous,” I say mid-chew. My words are muffled, but this muffin is delicious. I run my palm along the surface of the red-stained table that looks as if it has been anchored into the dirt for decades.
“My father built this table fifty years ago,” Daisy says with a proud smile, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Best place for a talk. Now, y’all help yourselves. I’ve got to get over to Earl’s to open up the kitchen, so I’ll leave you to your media business.”
She offers a general wave before turning to head toward her truck. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Roddy’s gaze locked on Daisy’s retreating back, his eyes soft and a bit heavy. I recognize longing when I spot it, and his stare remains fixed on her until her truck door slams and she backs out of the driveway.
He still loves her.
I turn my attention to Jake, and while I was watching Roddy, he seems to have been watching me. He shakes his head a tick, his mouth forming a slight frown. I’ll dig into that with him later. Right now, I need him to be on his best behavior.
“All right, guys, if we can just have you both sit on that side of the table,” Connor instructs, breaking the spell.
Jake slips on his flannel shirt as he moves to the far side of the table. Roddy takes a seat next to him, sitting a little stiffly. There’s a massive gap between the men, and the awkwardness could not be more palpable. Connor is setting up his microphone, so I take the opportunity to motion toward the father-son pair, urging them to sit a little closer and loosen up. They both roll their shoulders and shift their weight, but they don’t move a damn inch. Connor gives mea thumbs-up, so I guess I’ll have to settle for what they’re willing to give.
“So, Roddy, Jake,” Connor begins, his youthful energy bouncing off the quiet morning air. “It’s not every day we see a legendary veteran and a rising star sharing a clubhouse. Tell me, why do you both love baseball? What does this game mean to you?”
